Convenience
by KamikazeUdon
Summary: Collection of Vincent Valentine/Tifa Lockhart one-shots.
1. Waltz

Waltz

He looks down at the sweet vision in his arms, and is reminded of how he must be careful to keep his claw from pressing into her back too hard. His left arm feels a bit itchy in the gauntlet, and he flexes the fingers of his claw a little. It catches on the strands of her hair, and he winces, knowing he has potentially mussed her hair. Nervousness grips Vincent Valentine, but he keeps his apathetic expression.

Delicately, he wraps his long, slender fingers around hers, in position. She glances over his shoulder, in anticipation, at the chamber quartet. And the music starts, a slow waltz. Strains of cello and a piano in three-four time. They step together, as one. His coattails swish gently around them as he moves his face closer to hers, but she does not mind. Tifa Lockhart is dressed simply too, in black and white.

Her fingers skim a bit over his very bony hip, and he flushes a bit. The intimate contact is foreign to him after so long. He tightens his grip, so much that she can feel the bony digits. She smiles up at him to reassure him, lips quirking up in the slightest.

The fabric of her dress is cool against his fingers, and he takes care to adjust his claw a bit more. His hair falls in his face, despite the recent hair-trimming, and tickles her nose. She grins again, just a bit, and they move on.

Step around the other couples, and turn in slow, graceful circles. Unintentionally, they speed up, and they leave the music behind.

"Just slow it down a little."

This is the first time she hears him speak, and she manages to make out the words, spoken soft and low.

"Okay."

Her voice is quiet, but clear, unlike his. They continue to waltz at the correct tempo, shoes tapping a steady rhythm on the wood. The waltz winds down and they stop, gradually.

Bow once, offer his arm, and walk off, back to the tables. Her silk dress brushes briefly against the stiffer material of his trousers, as do her fingers on his own.

"Thank you, Vincent."

"You are welcome."

Her lips also brush briefly against the pale skin of his cheek. He takes her hand, and does the same.

Too bad it reminds him of Lucrecia.

Too bad it reminds her of Cloud.

But life goes on, and they move on, finding solace in each other.


	2. Sleep

Sleep

He frowns; Lucrecia appears again. Even after his little talk with her, he still sees her in his mind, sleeping peacefully in her coffin of crystal. It mocks him, and his lack of sleep. Occasionally he sees OMEGA hurtling toward him, and it reminds him, it's almost impossible to die when you aren't human.

He's eager to let himself drift off into sleep, but it never comes easy to him. So he lies awake in bed, sprawled over his cotton bed sheets.

He creeps out of bed to check up on his invalid. It is still raining hard and cold outside, but inside the penthouse apartment, it is warm. Thunder sounds in the distance and lightning illuminates the hollows under his eyes, and highlights their red color.

Six hours ago, she had been traveling when someone attacked her. And two hours ago, he found her collapsed in his hallway. Now she's supposed to sleep soundly so he can lie awake in bed and brood over his sins.

Furrowing his brow, he steps into her room bearing a tray with a bowl of water, a washcloth, and a thermometer.

She is fully awake now, and very groggy. Weakly, she sits up amongst the many pillows and comforters, and waited. A light turned on, and Vincent Valentine appears in her muted vision, illuminated by warm lamplight.

Offers a weak smile to him. He moves silently, setting her things down on the bedside bureau and pulling up a chair to sit by her bed.

The chair is soft, and the light inviting. Vincent in his chair, Tifa in her bed, and his thermometer in her mouth. Lovely. His expression is stoic, despite the cozy scene.

Beep. He leans over her, and reaches up. Their breaths mingle in their proximity, and a lock of his hair brushes her nose.

Her temperature is a degree above normal. He exhales, and gets up from the chair to bring the tray back with its contents.

She feels a twinge of guilt gnaw at her. About his loss of sleep. If she hadn't gotten sick from travel, then he wouldn't have to take care of her.

"Tifa…the bathroom is next to your room, if you wish to bathe."

His voice, as cliché as it sounds, makes her shiver. Not a shiver of fright, but one of delight, that warms her insides and makes her feel like a schoolgirl again.

She welcomes the hot water splashing down her back, soaking her grimy hair. Rivulets of cloudy water run into the shower drain, followed by suds.

He's concerned that none of the clothes that he owns will fit her. His concern is not misplaced, and he settles for his smallest shirt and sweatpants. A pair of boxers and a wifebeater to wear under.

She doesn't have a change of clothes. He knocks, clothes in hand and passes them to her. Then he all but runs away, retreating to his room.

His heart is pounding. And his thoughts race. All he can think about is how lovely her face looks, flushed from the steamy bathroom.

And then the power goes out. The lights that are on abruptly turn off.

They don't panic. That would be uncharacteristic of ex-AVALANCHE members. The ex-Turk lights a candle.

"Tifa. Are you okay?"

She emerges from the dark bathroom.

"Oh, yes, I'm okay. Are you?"

"Yes."

The temperature abruptly falls, signaling the failure of the heater. He had forgotten that it was electric. Damn it.

"It's so cold, Vincent. Do you have a heater?"

He curses inwardly. Not only does his power shut down, the heater does too. At least they'll freeze to death together, like lovers.

"I believe so, but it was on before. It may have shut down."

"Oh, I see. Well, will we freeze to death?"

"No. I think I have some extra bedding somewhere. Would you please hold the candle?"

"Okay. Can you see?"

"Yes."

He rummages through the cupboard. Apparently, it is empty. Inwardly, he curses.

"Hn."

"What?"

"I don't recall what may have happened to all of my extra bedding. So, you can have mine."

"Oh, but I couldn't do that, you'd be cold too. We can share our bedding, and we would both have what we need. Sound good?"

He curses his chivalry too. He can't refuse the lady.

He guides her to his bedroom, and they slip under the covers, turned away from each other. Quickly, Tifa sleeps soundly again.

He turns as far away as possible from her, but she manages to hold on to him in her unconscious state, her nose catching his distinctive scent of green tea. His claw itches again, and he can't reach it. He curses for the fourth time. After a while, he too succumbs to his soporific state.

His body provides her with heat, and she snuggles just a bit closer. She murmurs, and buries her face into his chest. He does not shrink away from her, content with the contact.

They don't feel so cold anymore.


	3. Touch

Touch

The claw always attracts attention. He is self conscious of its ephemeral glow, its sublime edge. People stare at him when he walks the streets of Edge, takes a break from his job as a Shinra consultant to the Turks, drinks in Tifa Lockhart's bar. He can not escape from their curious, bright stares.

As much as it seems to be just be a piece of sharp metal attached to his arm, most people do not realize that it is capable of feeling. Beyond the softly golden metal, and the mechanical whirr of the gears working inside of it, it allows him to touch, to feel. To feel the tactile sensation of a soft, feminine hand brush against it accidentally.

Vincent sits in Tifa's bar, nursing bourbon on the rocks and staring blankly at the polished wood and marble of its sleek surface. The translucent skin under his eyes is dark.

She smiles wanly at him, and absentmindedly brushes his gauntlet hand as she hands him another drink. He recoils slightly from her balmy, velvety touch to rest his claw on the counter again.

Tracing circles with on the shiny surface of the stone, Vincent commits her image into his immortal memory.

He remembers the points of dim light that reflect off his claw to light up her face as she continues to smile wistfully at him, questioning him silently with her eyes.

Then she speaks.

"Vincent, how old are you?"

He is surprised by the randomness of her question.

"Twenty-eight."

"Do you age, Vincent? Will you grow old like me?"

He pauses a bit, as if to think of a response.

"Tifa…if you worry about aging, then rest assured, you will age with beauty."

She blushes, with pleasure, and with embarrassment. Her next words are playful, almost childlike.

"Funny joke, Vincent. If I'm supposedly beautiful, then why am I the one who is left behind? Cloud left me for Aeris, a dead girl, nonetheless. By the way, you still haven't answered my question, Vincent, you sneaky man…"

His lips quirk under the deep crimson of his collar as he appreciates the irony.

"If you truly wish to know Tifa, I was twenty-seven when I was found in my coffin."

She grins prettily, a comely expression of triumph. Reaches out to tweak his collar, briefly mussing the few strands of his hair that have escaped from his bandanna.

"Ah, see, it wasn't that hard to answer my question. So I'm guessing you only started to age after your thirty-year stint in the box, eh?"

He arches an elegant black eyebrow in approving response.

"Yes, that is correct. You have a quick mind, Tifa."

She blushes harder, surprised by the number of compliments he has paid to her tonight. She wonders if it is the bourbon she has been pouring him all night.

"You age gracefully too."

They spend the rest of the evening in silence. Tifa wipes down her bar, as he continues to sit at the counter, lost in thought.

Images of her face, flushed from the steam in his bathroom. Of her, wearing a black and white dress, wrapped in his awkward embrace. They float across the ocean of his consciousness, coloring his silver and pink reverie.

She ends his waking fantasy when she clasps his sensitive gauntlet in her hands, and runs her fingers over it, delineating every fond contour of the warm metal.

He snaps out of his fond stupor when she speaks.

"Vincent…it's raining hard outside. A storm, the weather report says. I think it's best if you stayed until the storm abated."

He opens his lips to protest, but thinks better of it. Reluctantly, he acquiesces.

"Very well, Tifa. I will stay, but will you be inconvenienced?"

She grins happily at the reply, enthused to have her houseguest. She has been waiting to repay her debt to him for some time.

"No, not at all. And I'm just returning the favor, Vincent. Remember the time when I showed up at your house?"

How can he forget, when she reminded him with her velvet touch?


	4. Dream

Dream

Dreams are ephemeral little whims. That's why she never put much store by them. But if she had one word to describe Vincent Valentine, it would be "dream."

A fatal dream. One she could never have.

Tifa Lockhart never knew why she preferred the kind of men that liked to brood in dark corners and play the lonely hero role. First Cloud, now Vincent.

She knew he, Vincent, would be too hung up on the tragic memories of Lucrecia, his first and only love, to ever take notice of her. It was just like Cloud and Aeris.

She would always be the third wheel in any love triangle, whether it was the Cloud and Aeris one, or the Vincent and Lucrecia one.

But she could dream, couldn't she?

Which is why she is sleepless as he slumbers peacefully in the next room.

Which is why she sits next to his bedside, watching fondly as he sleeps.

She strokes his pale cheek with a loving caress, content to take this piece of her unattainable dream. A piece of his dark hair flows through her fingers, as she plays with it.

But what she doesn't know is that he has been silently watching her all this time. Feeling the sensation of her very human hands stroke the cool flesh of his cheek.

A dream is what keeps them tethered to each other, but denial is what keeps them apart.


	5. Deny

Deny

To deny is to hurt; this Tifa knew very well. Cloud had denied her his love because he had been too attached to Aerith's immortal memory, but maybe she could start over with Vincent.

But she is afraid to start anything new. She is too used to the easy familiarity she has with Vincent.

The ready comfort of a warm, living, breathing human body is just too fragile for her to break.

Vincent watches her steady herself into a ready position. Fists bandaged and gloved in black leather and gauze. Her bar clothes still on, but socks removed.

Her face is a study in denial. Always with a ready smile, whether genuine or forged, she denies herself the little bits of life that she would dearly like.

Cloud and Aerith were her biggest denial.

One, her love. One, her best friend.

Two she could not hurt for her own happiness.

She did not cry when Cloud left. She put on a broken smile, and continued to live as she had always done, if not for herself, then for Marlene and Denzel. She felt that it was her duty to sustain stability for them.

For months, she lives this way, mechanically, with no more feeling than the gears in his golden arm.

But eventually, she cannot withstand the mounting pressure of her sorrow without some release, emotionally or physically.

Her sparring partner is an odd choice. Vincent Valentine, the gunslinger, has retained enough of his Turk training to provide a decent fight. Today, he has shed his cloak, in favor of more practical clothing.

She throws a punch, and he leans slightly to one side. He parries another powerful punch aimed at his solar plexus. When she decides to deliver a flying kick to him, he grabs her feet and sends her to the ground. Gently, however.

Combat is the only place where both Tifa and Vincent do not deny themselves the pleasure of all out sparring. Everything else in their lives is a study in denial, both emotionally and physically.

She breathes heavily, chest heaving up and down, perspiration beading on her face, arms, legs.

He helps her up into a sitting position, and she thanks him for the challenge.

They look at each other's flushed, sweaty faces, and she flashes him another broken smile.

"All the time I fought you, Vincent, I imagined it was Cloud. Every punch, kick, was meant to hurt him."

She chuckles bitterly, and continues. He is surprised by her lack of reticence with him.

"But I don't think Cloud is quite as good as you are in hand-to-hand combat."

It hurts when she compares him to Cloud. It hurts when she sees him as a replacement for Cloud. He thought he could be so much more. But then again, she is denying him what he is denying her.

She sees the faint hurt in his eyes, and realizes that she is doing to him what Cloud did to her.

"Vincent, you aren't a replacement for Cloud, you never were. Cloud leaves such gaping holes behind when he rips away from the fabric of our lives, but it you aren't the patch. "

He chuckles darkly.

"Miss Lockhart, no one has ever compared me to a patch of cloth. You do me too much honor."

Something inside Tifa breaks when he says that. Maybe it's the irony, or the sarcasm in Vincent's words, but a tear beads out of the corner of her eye. It rolls down her cheek, mixing with the perspiration, blending in.

She moves her position to sit within the safety of Vincent's cloak.

And he does an odd thing. He holds her, and he licks the tear off her sweaty cheek.

The taste is not something unfamiliar to Vincent; the salty and tangy taste of released denial.

Denial was meant to be shattered, and the wounds created meant to be bandaged.


	6. Bandage

Bandage

She bandages herself up from the wounds that Cloud's absence has left. With work, with family, friends. Anything.

Vincent watches her wrap her hand with some gauze and tape. She had cut herself when she was preparing dinner.

Her whole being, injuries and all, is infinitely beautiful to him, skin a shade of warm ivory. Unintentionally, his lips quirk up, almost as if they had spasmed.

She flushes a light shade of pink under his gaze. He must be analyzing her flaws, she thinks.

They've been close friends for a year now. Maybe longer.

A preposterous idea floats into her mind. Why don't they just get married? A marriage of convenience.

She had read books, well, trashy romantic novels, about this kind of thing, and the people involved in them always ended up falling deeply in love later on. Of course, she was enough of a realist to understand happy endings did not occur in real life, but she understood that love did not always either

She'd given up on love. She'd needed a bandage for her heart too many times.

It'd be good for both of them. As she details the possibilities of marriage, and the advantages, she forgets that the man in question is still there, still observing her. With a faint, wry smile, almost smirk, on his face.

Suddenly, her thoughts come blasting out of her mouth. She blurts the very thoughts that she had planned to dismiss casually as a fantasy.

"Vincent, why don't we get married?"


End file.
